


Gang Aft Algey

by Captain America (HisMightyShield)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Unresolved Sexual Tension, graveside visit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:32:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisMightyShield/pseuds/Captain%20America
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A graveside visit. Whose grave? Who's visiting? Unclear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gang Aft Algey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musamihi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/gifts).



> I got it into my head that I wanted to play with perspective and the similarities between Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes as seen by those that knew them. Graveyards lend themselves well as nice backgrounds for introspective character studies. Um, also I suppose that Mark Gatiss and Andrew Scott's confirmation that Moriarty was, in fact, super dead could be seen as the inspiring force. As for the X-Files reference: I'm not even sorry.

*

Cemeteries, he mused, were built to compliment gloomy weather. The stones look better, richer when they were wet with rain. The tomb-side flowers and grass would perfume the weighted air with something sweet and just a little bit stale. This, the soldier thought, is what death smells like in storybooks. Each grave site sweating memories, sadness and sympathy to a cloaked few, huddling beneath their umbrellas and tears, protecting themselves from the greyness and grief that surrounds them. It was all as tragic as it was picturesque.

 

But anyone who knows death and anyone who has caused it, knew that this wasn't what it looked like. Anyone who had smelled corpses rotting in the desert or seen blood running so thick that it's impossible to tell where a bandage ends and a wound begins -- they knew that dying isn't peaceful and spotted with reflection and loved ones in mourning. Instead, death is rarely quick, never merciful and rarely painless.

 

Today isn't overcast, it's bright -- the sort of day that makes a man happy to be alive. The graveyard, however, looked unnatural beneath the warm sun. Almost artificial, as though there aren't really any bodies here at all. The older stones seemed particularly repulsed by the light, while the new stones with their glossy finish and sharply painted letters seemed to fare better, reflecting the light of their shiny faces.. In fact, his headstone practically shone like a beacon, beckoning the wayward near.

 

Sherlock Holmes.

 

The man stood over Sherlock's grave, hands clutched around a potted plant he held against his stomach. He'd been graveside before, more often then he would have admitted to anyone, and he'd read the engraved letters of Sherlock's name so many times that they barely held any meaning. They weren't words, they were just scars, cut into the black face of a rock and nothing more. They didn't say anything about what he'd managed to do with his life or who -- exactly -- he was, that was laying beneath the stone, buried in the earth. Nowhere was it written what a genius that man was, how no matter his fault he had still been someone's best friend. No one would ever know about that, or what he did for a frightened, war-damaged solider whose return to London had been under less than ideal circumstances. Those weren't the stories that were told. He'd be remembered, instead, as a fraud -- a criminal and a liar with every other aspect of who he was reduced to ash. Everything else was just a fairy tale.

 

He shifted his weight from one hip to the other and took a step forward, extending a hand to put the plant very carefully on top of the stone. It wasn't exactly a typical graveside decoration, he supposed, but then it wasn't a typical man who was buried there, so the whole arrangement seemed well-suited. Besides, the bloody plant meant something, even if the only other person who understood it was dead. 

 

It might not have been what most people thought about while standing over the grave of someone they considered a friend and partner, but he couldn't stop himself thinking about how long it might take someone to notice the cactus. As far as he knew (and he had been paying attention) It had been at least a week since John Watson had come around. The doctor didn't visit as frequently as he once did. Maybe no one would see it, and that would be fine. It wasn't really meant for anyone else.

 

"I'm leaving." He said at last, scraping a hand across his unshaven face before addressing the earth. "An' I won't be back. That cactus there, it won't last the winter, but even then, still doing better'n you, innit?" After tapping the stone with a finger and adjusting the plant once more to make sure it wasn't going to tip off the grave, he took a deep breath and stepped back. Putting his fist over his heart, he bowed in a gesture that was caught somewhere between respectfulness and sarcasm. "So good-bye then, Jim. It's been a pleasure."

 

That was all there was to say, but still he lingered, eyes fixed on the grave. It wasn't that he was reluctant to leave or struck immobile with grief -- it was something else. He'd heard a noise; someone was approaching him and he didn't want them to realise he'd noticed just yet. His hand swung down to wrap neatly around the gun in his coat pocket as he wondered whether being killed in a graveyard or on the roof of a hospital was the more ironic death. He whistled once to hide the sound of the gun's safety being clicked off.

 

***

 

Sebastian Moran knew all kinds of things that Sherlock Holmes didn't. How to aim a gun, for example. But as far as he was concerned, the most important bit of information that he had over Holmes was simply the fact Sherlock was a complete idiot. It was almost surprising, given how impressed everyone seemed to be with him all the time -- Jim included.

 

Just like the time that Sherlock met Moriarty at the pool, Sebastian found himself a perch to set up his gun to watch the exchange. This time, because of the distance and the sensitivity of the situation, Moriarty had himself wired to transmit the conversation so Moran could hear it. Sebastian was convinced that this was just Jim wanting to show off, but he didn't mind. Being overly familiar with how things panned out with Sherlock was better than having Jim run off the grid with the crazed detective. 

 

So he sat, looking down his scope, listening to Jim hit every beat of the story he'd planned to tell. Moran watched in amazement, as Holmes took it all in without a second thought. No consideration given to the fact that Moriarty was a brilliant liar who'd fooled the population of London without breaking a sweat. Moran was just lucky there was no one around to witness how dumbfounded he looked. He'd never believed it would work, but here it was, all going off without a hitch.

 

Moriarty worked like a fortune teller, like the ultimate con artist, letting Holmes fill in the blanks. Holmes named the people that he thought were going to die. He revealed more information, really, than either Jim or Sebastian had going into this. Sherlock just had so much faith in himself and his abilities that he didn't think for a second that there weren't any assassins primed and ready to take out John Watson or DI Lestrade. That this was all just as much of an illusion as Richard Brook had been from the very beginning..

 

Sebastian was the only person with a gun aimed at anyone, and that was just a precaution. He was there to make sure that Holmes was dead by the end of this. To make sure that no one interfered, nothing fancy. So far, that didn't seem like it was going to be a worry. Watson had taken the appropriate bait and wasn't anyone else in Sherlock's circle worth Moran's concern.

 

As Sherlock stepped up onto the ledge, Moran wondered what he was picturing. Some repairman opening his tool kit behind Mrs. Hudson's back and pulling out a silencer? A low-ranking Scotland Yard detective who was really a plant, casting Lestrade ominous glances? Jim turned, walked away from Holmes and Sebastian squeezed the handle of his rifle tighter. He didn't think he'd have to use it, it was simply an automatic response to Jim turning his back to Sherlock Holmes. Moran twisted his lips into a smile and pressed the ear piece in so he could hear what was happening clearer. Sherlock was -- Sherlock was laughing. Why was he laughing? 

 

You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?

 

The gunman's stomach felt more and more hollow as the conversation shifted. Sherlock lead it now, and Moriarty followed. The fact he wouldn't quite see from this angle -- with Jim in front of Sherlock that way -- made him nervous. It meant he didn't have a clear line to the target if he needed it. He had to move.

 

It took mere seconds to disassemble the gun as he listened to Jim and Sherlock continue to speak. He put another few flights of stairs behind his back, his only thought on how much he had to hurry.

 

And then he heard it. A single gunshot, followed by an angry shriek of feedback in his ear that made him pull the receiver out. After a crackle, the reception came back and he put it back in place just in time to listen to Holmes retching . He sat down mechanically, taking in the noises of Sherlock's panic like it was normal and ignoring the rapid beating of his own heart. He set up the gun. Moran needed his scope, he needed to look at the rooftop and see what had happened before he let his mind put the pieces together on their own. But that meant he had to put his rifle together properly, and he made his fingers work like he needed them to. 

 

After a few unfocused seconds he zeroed in on the rooftop, making out Jim's form laying on the gravel roof, that sick, satisfied grin on his face. Within a heartbeat, he had the gun trained on Holmes, ready to pull the trigger as he watched Sherlock stumble, disorientated across the roof. Sebastian paused, trying to decide whether he wanted to shoot Holmes through the skull, or take him down with a shot to the knee first. He wanted him know he's going to die before it happens, to suffer. 

 

The knowledge that Jim is dead rang in the back of Moran's mind alongside the echo of the gunshot that did it. None of this was part of any plan that Sebastian had been privileged to and it left him feeling utterly unstable. He followed orders, after all, he didn't decide what to do on his own. Moriarty'd never left him to his own devices before because he knew the result. It was Jim who was the architect, he'd always been, and the soldier just did his part to make Moriarty's dreams come true. Without Jim leaving the bread crumbs, Sebastian was alone -- he was lost. 

 

Holmes was back on the ledge before it struck Sebastian that the idiot still had every intention of jumping. It was the only thing that stayed Moran's hand and kept him off the trigger. The detective still believed Moriarty's lie about the assassins: he had to jump or all of his friends would die. 

 

Moran watched Sherlock place the phone call to Watson and when he started giving the doctor instructions, Sebastian followed them, aiming his rifle at Sherlock's friend. He grinned to himself a little at the doctor's stupidity, walking right into a trap, adding some truth to Jim's lies. Now, he'll die if Holmes didn't jump. Might even die if Sherlock took too long, because patience had always been a problem for Moran.. 

 

The sniper watched the scene unfold, feeling nothing beyond how badly he wanted both of the men in his sights to die. But if he jumped, it meant Holmes would complete Jim's story. That little detail was slowly becoming clearer. If if jumped, he'd be doing what Moriarty died to make him do and Sebastian could wait for that.

 

Sherlock spread his arms wide, tossed the phone behind him, leaned forward and --

 

The truck. The decoy. Sebastian saw it all, couldn't miss it if he'd tried. Illusions only ever worked on the intended audience, not on the crew hovering above the stage. It was all just a trick, just a magic trick. 

 

Frantically, Sebastian looked for a shot at Sherlock but he was obscured too quickly and the truck moved far, far too fast. He moved his sights back to John. After all, a deal was a deal. The friends died if Sherlock didn't. He'd start with John, but Holmes had supplied the list and Moran remembered the names.. 

 

"Damn it." He murmured to himself, veering the gun off Watson as a bicycle got in his way. He rocked back, away from his rifle and looked out onto the street below. He watched Watson struggle to his feet and stumble over to the body that wasn't Sherlock's. He watched as the man nearly collapsed next to who he thought was his friend and Moran wondered if that was supposed to be how he felt about this. If he should have made some ridiculous attempt to throw himself on Moriarty's bleeding corpse. Sebastian doubted it. As real as John's emotions might have been, they were wasted and from this distance seemed as false as everything else that had happened. As far as Sebastian knew, at that moment, Watson was as aware of what was going on as he was. Maybe he was in on it entirely and this was all an act. He shook off his rage and tapped the window glass with his finger.

 

Or maybe not. Maybe he was as stunned as Sebastian had been when he'd heard the gun go off in Jim's mouth. John was down there now, knees damp with the blood of someone he cared about and suffering. Really, really suffering -- just ripped apart in ways that physical pain could never quite manage. And that was good then, John could crawl around, limping like he used too through his pathetic life. Moran moved the sights off Watson. He wasn't in the business of putting people out of their misery. 

 

"I could kill you any time I liked.." He threw his arm back to start disassembling the his set up. The police would be on the scene soon, after all, and he needed to be as far away when that happened. "But not today."

 

***

 

"Hello."

 

Sebastian pivoted, hand still around his gun, and he gave John Watson as friendly a smile as he thought befitted a graveside meeting. He truly hadn't expected Watson to be back, he'd been gone for weeks that it almost seemed strange.. Maybe he'd underestimated how invested the doctor was in his relationship with Sherlock. Maybe he didn't care either way. "Hiya."

 

The two men looked at each other in silence before John's eyes travelled to the stone and the cactus sitting on it, like a garish feather stuck in an otherwise dull cap. He furrowed his brows, confused, and glanced back at the taller man. "Was that -- I mean, was in there when you got here?"

 

"Well, now it wasn't, no." Sebastian admitted with a half-shrug. "I--I brought it. I don't know, he didn't seem much of a ‘flowers' type, and that so -- ah, guess it's stupid."

 

"No--no, not stupid. Fitting, actually, given who he was."

 

Moran smiled, half at Watson was saying and half because the doctor didn't know what he was saying. Not really. "Yeah, maybe."

 

"You knew him?" John asked, smiling back in a way that suggested to Moran that Watson's therapist must be telling him to smile more and talk about Sherlock in healthy ways or some other positive-thinking alternative to medication. 

 

"Yeah -- I mean, well sort of. I've seen him dozens of times but he-- I mean..." He trailed off, purposefully leaving his explanation open-ended to watch the crease form on Watson's forehead as he tried to work it out.

 

"Police?" Watson said at last, nodding when the other man gave him a shrug of confirmation. "Thought you lot hated him."

 

"Well." Moran stoked the side of the gun in his pocket. From where he was standing, at this angle, he'd clip the bottom of Watson's lungs, maybe cut downward through his intestines if he shot now. "I don't really put much in it. You know, what I read in those papers. It's all just fairy tales." 

 

Something flashed across Watson's face. It wasn't quite recognition but it was clear that he picked up on what Sebastian had said and wasn't quite ready to dismiss it as coincidence. John looked at the other soldier with a bit more scrutiny, as though attempting to place him.

 

It was everything Sebastian could do not to smile at how perplexed John looked. He'd never done this before, played with people like Jim might have.. He never thought he was subtle enough for it, and from the face John was making, he was pretty sure he was right about that. Mentioning fairy tales was probably anything but discreet. 

In the weeks that followed Jim's death, he became more and more pleased with his decision to keep Watson alive. After all, so long as he was still kicking, Sherlock Holmes might have a reason to find his way back between Moran's crosshairs. John was just bait on the end of a hook, he just didn't know it.

 

"But I'll get out of your way then." Sebastian said, side stepping around Watson and letting the doctor give him a wave before he turned to walk away. Eventually, Moran knew, he'd run out of patience. The time would come when he got too tired of waiting around London for Holmes to resurface. Soon, he knew, he'd just decide that killing one of them was better than taking them both. And it would happen just like this, some chance meeting and an inability to stop himself from pulling a trigger and downing someone who ought to already be dead. Someday... 

 

Just not today.


End file.
